


i'll be your platinum

by achilleees



Series: the genre that is unrelated jackparse daddy kink fics [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: Wicks took a deep breath, then let out in a rush, “So I’ve been catfishing this dude online with your pictures so he’ll buy me free stuff, only now he wants to meet in person to hand off the suit jacket I need for Ginger’s wedding tomorrow, so I need you to meet him outside the Burberry at the Copley mall tonight to pick it up for me.”Kent couldn’t speak for a minute, because he was laughing too hard.





	

**Author's Note:**

> as ever, this fic is a thinly veiled love letter to the city of boston. someday i will get over my obsession with this city. someday i will also stop titling jackparse daddy kink fics after justin bieber songs. this is neither of those days.
> 
> get used to thinking of jack as ‘jacques’ for a while, btdubs. also, there is a very obvious Friends homage within this fic, you will know it when you see it (if you know Friends, obvi).

Kent was still half drunk from the night before when his phone rang at some ungodly hour of the morning. He ignored it the first time, but picked up when it didn’t stop after a minute, fumbling to hit the Answer button and giving a zombie-ish groan into it once he had.

“Dude,” said Wicks. “I need a huge favor.”

Kent was instantly suspicious. “How huge?”

“Like, finally cashing in from Spring Break sophomore year huge.”

Kent’s suspicion morphed into intrigue. “Talk to me,” he said, yawning and sitting up, finger-combing his disheveled hair away from his eyes.

Wicks took a deep breath, then let out in a rush, “So I’ve been catfishing this dude online with your pictures so he’ll buy me free stuff, only now he wants to meet in person to hand off the suit jacket I need for Ginger’s wedding tomorrow, so I need you to meet him outside the Burberry at the Copley mall tonight to pick it up for me.”

Kent couldn’t speak for a minute, because he was laughing too hard. “Dude,” he finally said, wheezing, “you’re a fucking asshole.”

“ _Sp_ _ring Break, sophomore year_ ,” Wicks said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent said, wiping at his eyes. “I can swing it. What time?”

“Six,” Wicks said, clearly relieved. “Jesus, thanks so much.”

“Oh man,” Kent said. “Do you think -”

“I’m hanging up now,” Wicks said, and did.

Kent flopped down to go back to sleep, still grinning.

  


That evening, he was there a little early with Starbucks in hand, sweat damp down the back and under the arms of his tank top after a heavy afternoon of Ultimate in the Common. Wicks had tried to nudge him into leaving early so he could shower and clean up before the hand-off, but what the fuck ever, like he cared if his fake sugar daddy thought he was a little trashy.

He leaned against the wall and people-watched, idly trying to guess which one would break away from the crowd and approach him - a middle-to-late-aged white man, he suspected, someone whose once-fit body had gone to seed, who wore clothes nice enough to mostly distract from it. He bet dude had a shiny-ass watch.

Kent really hoped he didn’t end up getting roofied and dragged behind a dumpster from this.

His gaze locked on a likely candidate, and he tracked him with his eyes all the way from the L.K. Bennett, heart rate starting to pick up as he drew closer - and then calming again when he walked past without more than a cursory glance at Kent.

“Hi,” Kent heard, from the other direction.

He turned and gave a literal jump at the man he found there, lips parting in unconscious shock.

“Um,” said the guy, lifting his hand that much higher, like Kent could have missed the garment bag being offered to him. “This is for you.”

“Holy shit,” Kent said, blinking at him, feeling absurdly like he must have forgotten to put in his contacts that morning, although the man’s looks were being broadcast to him crystal fucking clear. “Real talk, I did not expect you to be this fucking hot.”

The man - Jacques, Kent remembered Wicks telling him - honest to god blushed, like this was the first time he’d heard that, although the idea was patently ridiculous. One did not go through life with _those_ cheekbones and _those_ shoulders without hearing time and again how fucking hot he was.

What kind of sugar daddy blushed, anyway?

“Thanks,” Jacques said. “But anyway, here.” He tried to hand Kent the garment bag again, while Kent just stared at him like a doofus. “I know you said you were in a hurry…?”

“Yes,” Kent said, dazed, and it was nice of Wicks to give him the out, and all, but he needed a moment to come to terms with this situation. “Right. Well.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he was kind of slow.

“Right,” Kent said, and took the bag. “Well, um. Do I owe you anything?”

Another skeptical look from Jacques.

“Right,” said Kent again. Not the point, Kent. Entirely against the point, Kent. “Well… thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Jacques, with a half-smile and a shrug. “Have fun at the wedding.”

“Thanks,” Kent said again. “Well, right.”

“Well, right, thanks,” said Jacques, smile growing.

Kent realized that Jacques was mocking him, to his mingled delight and mild outrage. Kent Parson was not about to let his sugar daddy walk away from this thinking he was some kind of blithering nimrod.

He stretched up onto his tiptoes and pressed a glancing kiss to the corner of Jacques’ mouth, holding his shoulder for balance. “Right,” he said, and flashed his sly, crooked smile, the one that meant he never had to bring his wallet to a gay bar. “Thanks, well.”

He pulled away, letting his hand skim down the back of Jacques’ arm as he did, so his fingertips barely brushed over the exposed skin where his t-shirt ended. Then he walked away.

He made it about ten steps before Jacques pulled himself together enough to follow, which was pretty flattering.

“Um, Kenny?” Jacques said.

It was wicked uncool for Wicks to have given such a close approximation of his name, but Kent couldn’t deny the thrill in his stomach at hearing it. “Yeah?” he said, turning back.

“Do you think maybe we could do this again sometime?” Jacques said, ducking his head a little so he was looking up with a hangdog expression, and Kent defied anyone to have the mental fortitude to say anything but -

“ _Y_ _eah_.”

  


“So what did he look like?” Wicks said, after unzipping the garment bag and peeking inside. “I’ve been so fucking curious, man, you don’t even know.”

Kent hesitated. “Eh, he was alright,” he finally said, and he wasn’t sure why he lied.

“You told him he was hot, though, right?” Wicks said worriedly.

“Dude, duh,” Kent said, and that was 100% true, though not for the reason Wicks was thinking. “What, you think I’m some kind of amateur here? Please.”

Wicks breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thanks so much, man,” he said. “We’re even.”

“Hey, anytime,” Kent said, shrugging and making to leave.

“I might just take you up on that,” Wicks said, laughing.

Kent felt a guilty warmth at how much he hoped Wicks did.

  


He only had to wait a week before Wicks texted him. _I guess I’m cashing in on Metamorphosis now_.

 _Hahaha what now_?

_He wants to hand over the Rolex at dinner on Saturday._

Kent stretched his arms as he thought about it. He didn’t want to play this too eager. For Wicks, that would be chirping rights for a lifetime. For Jacques… For whatever reason, he found himself wanting to play coy. To tease a little. Make him work for it.

_Tell him to get a reservation at o ya and we’ll talk._

_???? ON SATURDAY??_

_:) :) :)_

  


Jacques met him outside o ya at promptly six thirty on Saturday.

Kent had to admit to being more than a little impressed. He grinned when Jacques directed him after the hostess to their table with a hand on the small of his back. “Getting cocky there, are we?”

“Just following your lead,” Jacques said.

“Fair,” Kent said, flashing a smile at the hostess as she left them to look through their menus. “FYI, bro, I’m about to eat my fucking weight in sushi. It’s gonna get nasty up in hurr.”

“Delightful,” Jacques said dryly. But Kent could see the way he watched him, eyes raptly tracking the bob of Kent’s throat as he drank some water, so he wasn’t particularly worried about keeping his interest.

“So,” Kent said, realizing in a flash that he had no idea what he was already supposed to know about Jacques from their prior conversations. Probably not normal sugar baby behavior to ask the standard first date questions anyway, right? Hm. “Bruins are really going to suck this year, huh?”

“Are they?” Jacques said, raising an eyebrow.

Kent shrugged. “I mean, I like, want to give Sweeney a probationary period before I really judge, but man gives away Looch _and_ Dougie in exchange for the worst first round picks of all time? I’m judgin’.”

Jacques’ other eyebrow rose to meet the first. “I thought you were more of a football fan,” he said slowly.

God dammit, Wicks. “ _More_ of one, sure,” Kent said vaguely. “You think I know a lot about the Bs, ask me about the Pats.” He prayed silently that Jacques would not actually ask him about the Pats. “But I used to play hockey when I was a little ‘un, so I’ve got a lingering affection.”

“You did?” Jacques said, lighting up. “Same. What position?”

“Left wing,” Kent said. “What, you think I’m D material?”

Jacques laughed. “You’re weird enough to be a goalie,” he teased.

Kent feigned outrage. “Fuckin’ harsh, man. I bet you were a center.”

Jacques nodded. “How did you guess?”

“Centers are always pricks,” Kent said, grinning.

He liked the way the corners of Jacques’ eyes crinkled when he laughed. “Fuckin’ harsh, man,” Jacques said, and it was painfully sweet with that French Canadian curl. “What are you thinking about?” He gestured at the menu.

Kent scanned it. “Everything looks amazing. But, like, not the avocado-heavy ones? Not my thing.”

Jacques shook his head. “Who doesn’t like avocado?”

“Moi doesn’t like avocado,” Kent said, just to see him wince. “Both mushy and tasteless. What kinda goddamn combination is that, shit.” This garnered him a disapproving side glance from the old lady at the table next to theirs, and Kent pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh. “I guess I should make it less obvious how far out of my league I am in here.”

“You’re not out of your league,” Jacques said.

Kent gestured down at himself. He was wearing his nicest suit, and he was willing to bet the entire ensemble cost less than one of Jacques’ shoes. “Bro,” he said.

“Kenny,” Jacques mimicked, in the same patronizing tone. “When you’re with me, there is nothing out of your league.” He reached across the table and circled Kent’s entire wrist with his long fingers, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

Kent blinked. He swallowed. “FYI,” he said. “That’s a good line.”

Jacques smirked.

  


After dinner, Jacques walked him to the T stop, hands in his pockets. Kent liked the easy grace he developed as he grew more comfortable around Kent, the coiled power behind his every motion.

The conversation never grew stilted, mainly because Kent kept up most of it, hands gesturing broadly as he expounded on everything that made Jack Edwards simultaneously the greatest and worst sportscaster of all time, the heaviness of the Rolex on his wrist gradually fading from his awareness. He only faltered when Jacques laughed, quiet and sweet, hitting Kent deep in the gut.

“What are you staring at?” he said finally, cutting himself off.

“You,” Jacques said, unabashed. “You’re different in person.”

“Am I?” Kent said, slightly concerned.

“Less sweet,” Jacques said. “More…”

“Spicy?” Kent said, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Jacques laughed again. “Sure, let’s go with that.” He hesitated. “It feels less like you’re saying just what you think I want to hear.”

Kent rolled his eyes internally. Weak sauce, Wicks, he chided. “It’s harder to read subtext online,” he said, thinking quickly. “In person, I don’t have to worry about whether you know I’m kidding.”

Jacques nodded slowly, like he was thinking this through. “Makes sense,” he said.

“I very occasionally do,” Kent said with an over the top wink.

Jacques laughed. He looked up at the scattered line of people waiting for the T, then drew Kent away around a corner so they were out of sight. “I’d like to kiss you, if that’s okay,” Jacques said, from very close.

Kent went a little weak-kneed from how okay that was. “You don’t really have to ask,” he said. “You, you know… own me, right?”

Jacques frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “It’s not like that,” he said.

“Okay,” Kent said agreeably. “But I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

Jacques smiled and then kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him. He pressed against Kent so that he was a hot hard wall of muscle all along his front, and Kent clutched at him and kissed him back until he was dizzy from it.

Dimly, Kent registered his train pulling up and unloading. He made no move to pull away.

  


After he got home, still faintly buzzing with adrenaline and unable to sleep from it, Kent sent Wicks a text.

_Bro send me all the logs of your chats with him, it’s gonna get mad suspicious if I keep missing references he makes to old conversations we’ve had._

He woke up in the morning to an email with a huge Word document attached, and spent an hour in bed with a mug of coffee reading through it.

Then he sat back, pressing his giddy smile to the rim of his mug.

  


Kent showed up at Wicks’ place in sweatpants and a stained hoodie. “Yo, I need some clothes,” he said as soon as Wicks opened the door.

“That much is apparent,” Wicks said. “Um, come in?”

“I’m already late, so let’s bypass the snark and get to the help, shall we?” Kent said. “Does he give you, like, normal designer clothes, or just suits?”

“Both,” Wicks said. “Wait, you’re seeing him today?”

Kent nodded. “We - he - arranged it on the o ya date, so. Clothes, bro!”

“Uh, okay,” Wicks said, flustered into action. He dug through his closet. “Um, these jeans, these chinos, these slacks…”

Kent tried on the jeans, pleased at the way they made his ass look.

Wicks tossed him a few shirts. “Good enough, your highness?”

“Yeah, I like this one,” Kent said, though he didn’t even know who Philipp Plein was, or where his clothes fell in the hierarchy of brands. “The Rolex?”

Wicks’ hand flew protectively to his Rolex, and he turned away a little as if to hide it from Kent. “No, mine. Why?”

Kent rolled his eyes. “If he sees that his gifts are appreciated, he’ll want to buy you more of them.” And, though he wouldn’t admit this to Wicks, if Jacques bought them, it was because he liked how they looked, and would probably like how they looked on Kent. And he wanted Jacques to like how Kent looked.

“I guess,” Wicks admitted, reluctantly handing over his watch. “Anything else?”

Kent looked around the room. “Depends, did you buy those Costas yourself?”

Wicks handed them to him with a grimace. “You better be getting something out of this, dude.”

“Oh, I will,” Kent said, quite certain of this.

  


He had Jacques take him to his favorite bakery in Chinatown, endeared by how bemused Jacques was at the armload of pastries they got for less than ten dollars, like this was the first time he’d experienced how the other half lived. They ate their bounty and walked in the Common, feeding the squirrels by hand once they were full themselves.

“So,” Kent started, once Jacques was comfortable and smiling, the two of them seated next to each other on a bench watching the swans glide across the pond, “why haven’t you asked me to come home with you yet?”

Jacques went stiff. He didn’t say anything, but something about the tightness in his jaw looked guilty.

“I mean, it’s a sex thing, right?” Kent said, because he had learned two things in those message logs: one, that providing for Kent gave Jacques more than satisfaction, it gave him _purpose_ , it gave him _fulfillment_ , in a way that was both chaste and carnal at the same time.

And two, that Kent liked him. Liked him a lot, for more than the depth of his pockets. And he thought he could learn to like him a lot more, if given the chance.

Jacques cleared his throat. “It’s not _just_ …”

“No, I know,” Kent said, nudging their knees together gently. “And I get you’re trying not to make me feel pressured, but, uh, maybe there’s a happy medium to be met here, is all I’m saying.”

Jacques looked at him, trying to read something from his face.

Kent smiled.

“So do you…?” Jacques said.

“I mean,” Kent said, turning his gaze forward to the swans again, just a little shy, “this is a thing for you, right? You’re gorgeous and smart and rich, you could get hot people to sleep with you without even trying, and def without paying for it. But the paying - the ownership… It means something.”

After a moment of hesitation, Jacques nodded.

“Well, is it so hard to believe it’s a thing for me too?” Kent asked, and he wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t have known it before Jacques, but…

He wasn’t lying.

“This is the first time I’ve done this,” Kent said, because he knew from the logs that Wicks hadn’t claimed anything to the contrary. “And I don’t have a lot of experience with it, but… if you want to teach me, I’d like that.”

He looked frankly at Jacques, who was looking back like he was seeing Kent for the first time, lips parted slightly, eyes shockingly blue.

Finally, Jacques cleared his throat. “Come home with me?” he said, tracing his fingers over the sensitive skin of Kent’s wrist.

“Gladly,” Kent said, and flashed his crooked smile.

  


Jacques lived in one of those gorgeous townhomes in Beacon Hill, the kind worth six times more than the grotesque cookie cutter mansions twenty times the size back in Rochester. Kent didn’t have a lot of time to appreciate the decor before he was being manhandled up against the door, pinned there by Jacques’ full weight against his front.

God, he liked that.

“Tell me,” Jacques started, his voice already appealingly rough. “Tell me what your limits are.”

“No pain,” Kent said immediately. “No, like, disgusting bodily fluids. Other than that, I’ll let you know if and when they come up.”

Jacques wound his large hand through the hair at the back of Kent’s head, pulling it back, gently enough that he could have easily tugged away. “Pain? No, no, baby, I don’t - that’s not what I want from you, I would never…”

He latched his mouth onto the pulse beating under Kent’s jaw, tasting him, practically worshipping him with his mouth. Kent panted, clutching at Jacques’ shoulders.

“What about you?” Kent asked, already breathless, hips stuttering forward in abortive waves. “What are your limits, sir?”

Jacques pulled back, making a face.

“Not sir?” Kent said, laughing. “Do you have a nickname? Jacques is so…”

Jacques paused, mulling something over. Eventually, he cleared his throat. “If you feel, uh, comfortable…”

Kent raised his eyebrows.

“Call me daddy?” Jacques whispered, eyes almost feverishly bright.

“Oh,” Kent breathed out. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” He smiled, sweeping Jacques’ messy hair away from his eyes. “I can do that, daddy.”

Jacques ground his hips forward, groaning helplessly.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you,” Kent said, embarrassingly earnest. “Whatever you want…”

“I know, baby,” Jacques said, spreading his hands under Kent’s thighs and lifting him clear off the ground, carrying him through the house and up the stairs. “I know you will.”

  


Kent was accustomed to sweet Jacques, reserved Jacques, slightly awkward Jacques, which is what he expected to encounter in bed as well.

This, he quickly learned, was an incorrect assumption.

Jacques tossed him onto the bed and crawled on top of him, settling his bulk over Kent and pinning him down without hesitation. His fingers were tight on the back of Kent’s neck, both demanding his compliance and expecting it, dragging him into a kiss without a question that Kent would submit.

“Please,” Kent said, when Jacques gave him the room to breathe. “ _Please_.”

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” Jacques said, gaze dark and feverish as he eyed Kent spread out across the bed. “‘s get these off,” he murmured, tugging on his shirt, dipping his fingers into the waistband of his pants. Kent helped him strip them off, and the moment he did Jacques was leaning over to suck on Kent's nipple. “Roll on your belly for me, baby,” he said, pulling back.

Kent trembled, overwhelmed by how gently, how firmly, Jacques was touching him. He was almost too dazed to understand Jacques, staring at him with wide eyes for a long moment, full of breathless longing.

Then recognition struck him and he rolled over immediately, propped up on his elbows and looking back over his shoulder at Jacques. “Don’t you want me to do anything for you?” he said, because obviously he enjoyed being doted on but he also wanted to give back to Jacques, make him feel good. “You’re still fully dressed…”

Which was fucking hot, actually - Jacques looked so authoritative in his suit, power in every coiled muscle visible underneath. His body was huge and strong, cock visibly heavy between his legs. And Kent was at best his pet, at worst his plaything, naked and pliant to his whims.

“Next time,” Jacques promised, and Kent knew that he enjoyed the juxtaposition as much as Kent did. “But right now, I really wanna put my fingers in you. Bet you'll look so good stretched around them.” He ran his hands down the length of Kent's back, over the curve of his cheeks.

“Please,” Kent said raggedly, instinctively spreading his legs, knees shuffling apart.

“God, look at how tight you are here,” Jacques said, almost marveling, rubbing his thumb over the clench of Kent’s hole. Kent watched as he grabbed lube from the bedside table and set a condom on the mattress next to him, relieved that he didn’t have to ask for it.

A moment later cool, slick fingers were running over Kent’s rim, coating it before pressing one finger inside. Jacques waited for Kent’s answering moan before joining it with a second, stretching Kent around the full width of two of them.

“I can feel you trying to open up for me, baby,” Jacques said in a low voice. “‘s so fucking hot.”

“Wish I could open up faster,” Kent said, choked, squirming back towards Jacques’ fingers, though there was a slight burning stretch already from having two buried in him all the way. “‘m already such a fucking mess, ‘m leaking all over your comforter…”

He gave a shuddering, breathy laugh when Jacques brushed over his prostate, hips bucking. “Fuck, I should have jacked off earlier - ‘m gonna come so fast, daddy…”

Jacques hissed a curse as he added a third finger, pouring a little more lube onto them to ease the slide. “You can come as fast as you want as soon as I have my cock inside you,” he said, running his free hand soothingly over Kent's lower back. “‘m gonna keep fucking you after, make you feel all of it.”

“Yeah, Jesus, want it,” Kent said, head dropping forward between his arms, sweat already winding down his face.

“You're ready,” Jacques said, tearing open the condom and rolling it on. He helped Kent get his knees under him and held his hip with one hand, rubbing the base of his back with the other as he pushed his cock inside. “Holy shit, you're so tight,” he groaned, reaching under Kent to palm his cock. “Feels so good.”

“No, no,” Kent said, curling his fingers around Jacques’ wrist and tugging him gently away from his cock. If Jacques really wanted to keep his hand there, Kent would back off. But - “Seriously, ‘m gonna come if you touch me there. Wanna feel you first, please.”

Jacques was so fucking big - but it was more than that. It wasn’t just that his cock was big, it was that Kent could feel how strong he was from the hand at his waist, the way _Kent’s_ whole body was practically vibrating with the coiled tension of Jacques remaining still, waiting for him to adjust.

Jacques was patient, though, working him through it with gentle murmurs and strokes over his lower back, and gradually the burning pain lessened until Kent’s body seemed to open up all at once, his hole going sweet and loose around his cock.

Kent groaned, guttural, from deep in his chest. “Can you - move, please? ‘m ready, I want…”

Kent’s shoulders collapsed even more against the pillow as Jacques fucked him, and soon it felt like he was only staying up by virtue of Jacques holding onto his waist, ass arched up high and angled perfectly for Jacques to sink inside.

Jacques reached under Kent again, stroking his dick firmly in time with his thrusts, getting deep and angling for Kent’s prostate every time. “C’mon, I want you to, I want you to,” he said when Kent protested weakly and tried to bat his hand away again. Jacques countered with a retaliatory twist of his wrist as he passed over the head of Kent’s cock. “I’m gonna be right after you, ‘m gonna take off the condom and come all over your ass, okay?”

It may have been the promise of coming on him or the twist of his wrist or the way Jacques just fucking _nailed_ his prostate on that thrust, or it could be a combination of the three, but Kent’s orgasm was ripped out of him by force pretty much moments after Jacques gave him permission.

He cried out, some sobbing mess of _Jacques_ and _daddy_ and _please_ , his whole body seizing up as he spilled out all over himself and the sheets and Jacques’ knuckles, harder than he could remember coming.  He slumped even more onto the bed, his whole body gone loose, little whines still being knocked out of him with every roll of Jacques’ hips.

“God, daddy,” he panted, voice rough. “ _Daddy_.”  He tried to summon speech, to tell Jacques how good it had felt, how hard he had come, but he was so fucking sated the only word his overwhelmed brain could think of was - “Nnn, daddy…”

“Yeah, baby,” Jacques murmured. “You’re so good, so fucking good for me. Fuck, daddy’s gonna come all over you, baby,” he groaned, pulling out and ripping off the condom and keeping Kent’s ass parted with one hand while he jacked off all over his ass.

Kent tried to remember the last time he’d had sex that good.

Never, he had to think.

  


“Jesus, baby, your ass is fucking ridiculous,” Jacques said once they’d both recovered a bit, propping himself up on his side next to Kent and sweeping a hand over his back, thumb lingering over the sticky wetness at the top of his ass.

Kent mumbled something incoherent into the pillow.

Jacques chuckled. “What?”

“Your dick is ridiculous,” Kent repeated, turning his face so his mouth was clear. “Christ, man, you might have to register that thing as a weapon of mass destruction with the defense department.”

“Weapon of _ass_ destruction, maybe,” Jacques quipped.

Kent stared at him before giving a delighted laugh. “Did I know you were such a dork?” he asked. “It’s rhetorical, don’t answer.”

“Noted,” Jacques said, smiling.

Kent allowed the gentle petting for another few minutes before he rolled over. “Kay, I need a shower.”

“Oh,” said Jacques with poorly masked disappointment. “Yeah, feel free.”

“Don’t give me those big sad eyes, I just don’t like being sticky,” Kent said, laughing a little. “I’ll be right back.”

He could tell Jacques didn’t believe him, though - the sheets were changed and Jacques had changed into more comfortable clothes when he got out of the shower, like he was expecting to settle in for the night by himself, which is why Kent made a show of searching through his drawers one by one.

“What are you looking for?” Jacques asked, brow furrowed.

“Something comfy to wear,” Kent said breezily, finding a deep red t-shirt and holding it up. He turned his head towards Jacques. “Unless you want me to go…?”

“No, stay,” Jacques said, a little too quickly to be casual.

“Damn straight,” Kent said, pulling on the t-shirt and his boxer briefs and climbing back into bed with Jacques. “You must have played hockey at Samwell, you have like ten of these,” he said, looking down at the t-shirt.

“Yeah,” Jacques said, running his hand up and down Kent’s back, tracing his spine through the shirt. “That must be one from my freshman year, if it actually fits you. I hit a growth spurt and gained about four inches that year.”

“Rude,” Kent said.

Jacques laughed again. Kent loved how easily he was starting to do it around him.

“Hey, gimme your phone,” he said, making grabby hands until Jacques unlocked it and passed it over. He entered his number and saved himself as a contact under _Kenny 8==D~~_ , deeply amused at how Jacques clearly didn’t understand the symbol. “Text me,” he said.

“Okay,” Jacques said, turning his head away to hide his smile. He must have been convinced Kent - Wicks - would keep their interactions online, by how widely he was grinning. And yeah, that would have been the safer idea, but…

Since when had Kent liked safe, anyway?

  


Kent spent a few minutes poking through the sparse items in his refrigerator and pantry before he gave up and pulled out his phone, sending Jacques a series of messages.

_Take me grocery shopping._

_All I’ve got in my fridge is white rice and 6 kinds of salsa._

_A good daddy would worry about my nutrition._

_Although I guess I’ll give better blowjobs when my teeth fall out from scurvy…_

His phone buzzed a minute later with an incoming text.

_What’s your address? I’m calling you a cab._

Kent grinned and texted him his address, pumping his fist in victory.

  


Jacques met him outside the Trader Joe’s on Mem Drive, glowering at him in disapproval.

“Hey, I saw the contents of your fridge when I slept over, that’s why I’m asking you,” Kent said, entirely unapologetic. “And props to you for knowing how to cook quinoa, btdubs.”

“Knowing how?” Jacques said, selecting a cart before Kent could move towards them. “There’s literally nothing to it.”

“Whenever I make it, it tastes like cardboard,” Kent said.

Jacques faltered. “It always… Whatever,” he said, glowering some more.

Kent grinned. “So,” he said, “am I allowed to buy cheese and chocolate and shit, or is this a green vegetables only kind of trip?”

“You need protein also,” Jacques said absently, grabbing the box of cereal Kent dropped in the cart and scanning the nutrition facts. He pursed his lips, but set it back down without comment. “Carbs, as long as they’re whole grains. Greek yogurt.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kent said. “I was kidding. Are you actually policing my diet? I’m calling abuse.”

“I’m not policing your diet,” Jacques said indignantly. “A balanced diet is about more than -”

“Holy shit,” came a voice from behind them. “I knew I recognized those dulcet tones.”

They both turned, and Kent found a handsome man leaning forward on his elbows against his shopping cart and grinning knowingly at Jacques.

“Bro, it’s honestly ridic how many times I’ve heard this lecture,” he said. He waggled his eyebrows at Kent. “Wait until he gets to the part about how much sugar is in fruit juice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jacques said, eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised to see you away from Holster.”

The man tipped his head to the side. “He’s in the two-buck-chuck aisle.”

Jacques snorted. “And you’re giving me shit, you codependent -”

“Ain’t no thang,” said the man. “Who’s your friend?” He grinned, teasing yet warm, at Kent.

Jacques looked at Kent, eyes widening a little, like he was just realizing how much power Kent held in that moment. How easily he could reveal their relationship dynamic; how they had met; what they were doing here together; the fact that Kent was almost 100% sure this handsome stranger and he knew Jacques by completely different names.

Kent grinned back at the guy. “Sup, I’m Kenny, I’m a friend of his. I’m guessing you’re an old college teammate?” He doubted those nutrition lectures came up in a vacuum.

“Yep,” said the guy. “I’m Ransom, nice to meet you.”

They shook hands.

“And this is Holster,” said Ransom, tipping his head at a blond man who was approaching with two bottles of wine in each hand, the necks nestled between his knuckles, bottles clinking together. “Holtzy, meet Kenny. He’s the captain’s new _friend_.” There was a smirk in the way he said it, but not unkindly.

Kent could see that Jacques was starting to relax, though his eyes still tracked the conversation warily, like he was just waiting for his lucky streak to break. If Kent were a good person, he’d probably make excuses to get out of the conversation.

Kent wasn’t a very good person, but he wasn’t a terrible one either. “So how much sugar _is_ in juice, anyway?” he said.

Holster groaned. “Do not get him started,” he said, gesturing with a wine bottle at Jacques. “Do _not_.”

“So, Kenny, what do you do, anyway?” Ransom said, picking out a few avocados at random and tossing them into his cart.

“Masters at BU,” Kent said. From the corner of his eye, he saw all the depleted tension snap back into Jacques’ shoulders, though he couldn’t guess why this time.

“Oh sick, I’m in my last year of med school there,” Ransom said. “S’a great campus.”

“Totally,” Kent agreed. “You catch the Beanpot last year?” He shook his head. “What I wouldn’t give for seats behind the glass.”

Holster snorted. “Hell, Papa Z buys out a whole club box every year, so there’s your in. So fuckin’ pissed I was out of town last year.”

It took Kent a moment to deduce who Papa Z was - for a few seconds, he was left wondering how many people Jacques was sugar daddy-ing for, Christ - until he realized Jacques had to have gotten his money somewhere, and he doubted it was from the lottery. Well, the genetic lottery, maybe.

He was a little bummed he couldn’t voice his awesome pun out loud. He had a feeling Ransom and Holster would appreciate it.

“Yeah, there’s my in,” he mused aloud.

Jacques cleared his throat. “Ransom and Holster have to go now,” he said, taking each of them by the shoulder and steering them away. “Say bye, boys.”

“Bye!” Ransom and Holstered chorused, waving at Kent over their shoulders.

Kent waved back, waiting until they were definitively out of earshot before he smirked up at Jacques. “Nice friends,” he said.

“Yeah, nice,” Jacques grumbled. He sorted through the bananas looking for a good bunch, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

Kent gave him a minute, but Jacques’ expression didn’t clear and he didn’t look up. “Um,” Kent said, feeling nervous for no real reason. “If… that was out of line, I can try to come up with a better lie next time…”

Jacques looked up. “No, that’s - I mean, just…” He ran his hand through his hair. “It was risky to say BU. What if he had pressed you on it?”

Kent blinked at him. “I _do_ go to BU,” he said slowly. “City Planning  & Urban Affairs. I’m getting my Masters.”

“What?” Jacques said, staring at him.

“Bro, why do you think I’m so broke?” Kent said. “Or…” He realized then what Jacques must have thought - that he really was just some dumb blond twink shopping around until he found the right sugar daddy to fund his extravagant, aimless lifestyle.

Jacques pressed his lips together. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I assumed…”

Kent chewed his lip, finding that he was the one unable to meet Jacques’ eye this time. “When I said you were my first - that this was the first time I’ve done this, I was telling the truth. You’re kind of a special case for me, you know?” He wished he had shirt sleeves to fidget with, and reached out to grab Jacques’ instead, since they were there.

Jacques intercepted his hand first, grabbing and squeezing it. “Yeah,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

Kent looked up into those blue, blue eyes, and his lips parted at the intensity of the gaze he found trained on him. His lips formed around Jacques’ name, but he didn’t speak it.

It was getting harder for him to use Jacques’ fake name, he realized, and he consciously recognized the reason why even if he wasn’t prepared to confront it yet.

There were probably better locations to be sharing this moment than the produce aisle of a Trader Joe’s. Jacques seemed to realize this at the same time he did, because he cleared his throat and pulled his hand away. “Kind of a cheap date, aren’t you?” he teased, putting a box of Clementine’s into the cart. “What happened to your designer tastes?”

Kent found himself wishing Wicks hadn’t given Jacques that impression about him, because that had never been who he was - yeah, he liked shiny cars and shiny watches, but he was happier eating cheese fries than foie gras, and he practically lived in his sweatpants.

An errant thought struck him, and he smiled. “You think this a cheap date?” he said, shooting Jacques a warm sidelong look as he searched the rack for his favorite oatmeal. “Just wait until the next one.”

Jacques eyed him curiously.

  


“This turn, here,” Kent said, leaning forward in his seat and gesturing for Jacques to merge over.

Jacques turned in, glancing over his shoulder to check for cars in his blind spot and drawing Kent’s eye towards his strong jawline.

In the week since he’d last seen him, Jacques had grown a mountain man beard. Consciously Kent realized that there was no way Jacques could have known exactly how turned on Kent would be by this, but it seemed unfair all the same.

“Here?” Jacques said. “Isn’t this a hospital?”

Kent waited for him to catch on.

“Or - oh,” Jacques said, driving past the 24-hour animal hospital and up to the doors for the MSPCA. “Cheap, yes. Am I getting you a dog?”

“Nah, my apartment doesn’t allow it,” Kent said, climbing out of the car and stretching. “So I come by every week to walk the pitties, get some old-fashioned animal therapy.” He led Jacques inside by the hand. “My undergrad used to bring puppies in during finals week and it was the best stress-reliever, s’how I got the idea.”

Jacques smiled at him the way he did sometimes, like he didn’t totally understand Kent’s mind but he wanted to put in the work to figure it out. “Pitties?”

“Pitbulls,” Kent explained. “Hi, Maura.” He leaned against the desk and smiled over it at Maura, who gave Jacques an openly admiring stare and cocked an eyebrow at Kent. “I know, right?”

“Very nice,” Maura said. “But you know he’s not allowed to handle them since he hasn’t been through training, right?”

“He’ll keep his distance, promise,” Kent said, accepting the key she handed him. “Thanks, lovely.”

“Have fun,” Maura said. “Louisa’s feeling jumpy today, FYI.”

“Good to know.” Kent led Jacques to the back room. “I’d get a cat if I could, actually. I have cats back home in Rochester and I love ‘em to death, but the pitbulls here are so tragic, breaks my fuckin’ heart, so it’s literally the least I could do to spend some quality time with them.”

Jacques gave a murmuring noise of understanding.

Kent unlocked the door to Scooter’s pen and knelt down to accept the wriggling, panting 40 pounds of muscle that barreled into him. He screwed up his face and tried to escape the enthusiastic tongue-bath, to no avail. “Aw, c’mon, Scoots, you just saw me last week. Be cool.” He rubbed Scooter behind both ears. “You’re never gonna get a girl if you don’t figure out how to play hard to get, man.”

Jacques chuckled behind him.

Kent turned his head, wrestling to clip on Scooter’s leash. “I’ll be here for a few hours, but you can come back to get me if there’s somewhere you’d rather be.”

“There isn’t,” Jacques said, meeting Kent’s eyes, his expression warm and open. “Thank you for showing me.”

Kent ducked his head, terrible as always at responding to such frank sincerity. “Hey, I mean… Yeah,” he said, smiling shyly back. “Yeah.”

  


The fall semester started, giving Kent less time to dick around with Jacques, which totally sucked, to be real. He knew Wicks was still getting gifts sent to him, judging by the new threads dude showed off every time Kent saw him.

He wondered what Jacques thought of that, how he reconciled the warmth and snark of Kent in person with the cloying artificiality of him online - the way Kent came to booty-call him at three o’clock on a Tuesday wearing a threadbare Old Navy shirt and flip-flops vs. the Tom Ford colognes Wicks requested him to send to the PO box he had set up in Allston when he first started the whole thing.

He wondered if Jacques stayed up late at night thinking about it, or if he buried it so deep in his mind it never came up.

When Kent was the one up late at night thinking, he had to wonder - which Kent did Jacques like more?

  


“Have I ever told you how much I fucking love your bed?” Kent said, stretching languorously, arms over his head.

Jacques chuckled, skimming his thumb up and down Kent’s happy trail in a soft caress. “Yes. Many times over.”

“Yeah,” Kent said, grinning. “Because I fucking _love_ your bed.”

“It’s a good bed,” Jacques agreed.

Kent shook his head at him. “Good nothing, this is a _great_ bed. This is the bed dreams are made of.”

“I’ll be sure to send the mattress company your regards,” Jacques said dryly.

“You should!” Kent said, sitting up quickly. “Do you think they’ll give me a complimentary mattress for it?”

Jacques laughed. “Have you been a shill for Big Mattress this whole time? Are you trying to get me to invest?”

“Drat, you’ve seen through my fiendish plan,” Kent said, laughing back. He thumbed at Jacques’ messy bangs. “You need a haircut, daddy.”

“You’re telling me that?” Jacques said, flicking Kent’s cowlick.

Kent sighed. “Sadly, it doesn’t get any less ridiculous when it’s shorter,” he said. “The single greatest tragedy of my life.”

“Woe to you,” Jacques said - it was among Kent’s greatest satisfactions when he caught Jacques quoting ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding.’ Totally worth watching it three times over. Jacques leaned in and kissed him. “Anyway, I love your cowlick.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” Kent said, pouting.

Jacques bit Kent’s lower lip gently. “I mean it,” he said, just barely a breath over Kent’s lips.

“And my weirdly tiny nipples?” Kent said, which he hadn’t realized was strange until the guy at the piercing place couldn’t stop laughing when he took his shirt off. “You love those too?”

“I do,” Jacques said, twisting Kent’s other nipple, since he wasn’t supposed to play with the piercing yet.

Kent’s hips bucked, heat starting to flood through him all over again. “And my flat ass?” he said breathily. “That too?”

“You know I love your ass,” Jacques said, grabbing Kent’s ass and dragging him up so their hips were slotted together neatly. “You don’t need me to tell you.”

Kent hooked his ankle around the back of Jacques’ thigh. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.” But it was nice to hear, all the same.

“Love your ass,” Jacques said again, squeezing it roughly. He traced his hand up. “Love your hips, love your abs… love your hands, love your fingers.” He lifted Kent’s hand to his face and kissed each fingertip, one by one.

Kent kind of forgot how to breathe.

“Love your big, pretty eyes,” Jacques said in an exhale, moving up to kiss the corners of Kent’s eyes. “Love your cute little nose.” He pressed the lightest kiss to it, making Kent giggle. Jacques pulled back and eyed him fondly. “Love your smile.”

He kissed Kent deeply, tenderly, and then pulled away just a little so they were still breathing the same air.

Everything was very still in that moment, almost frozen. Kent could feel his heart pounding in his fingertips, as if Jacques’ kisses had brought everything rushing to the surface of his skin. Kent would have spoken - wanted to speak - but he couldn’t find the words.

And suddenly Jacques was kissing him again in a frenzy, hungry and demanding. “Shit, Kenny, I need to fuck you again,” he said, the words ragged and rushed between their lips. “Can I -?”

“Yes, daddy,” Kent said, nodding so hard he nearly clipped his chin on Jacques’s forehead. “Yes, I want you to.” Jacques fumbled for a condom and scrambled to roll it on, positioning himself at Kent’s entrance right where he was. “Daddy, yes, yes - oh, fuck, _yes!”_

For now, those words seemed to be enough.

  


His cell phone was ringing in his bedroom, but Kent had a mouthful of hands and floss so he just let it go. When he came back, he crawled into bed then picked it up and called Jacques back.

“Did I wake you up?” Jacques asked, sounding concerned.

“Nah, but I’m about five minutes from passing out,” Kent said. “How’s the beautiful north?”

“Grey,” Jacques said. “I’ll let you go, if you need to -”

“S’fine, really,” Kent said, smiling. “Bro, it’s 9:15, you don’t need to feel bad about calling me.”

“Yeah, but you had that big project, and -”

“It’s fine!” Kent said, laughing aloud now. “Christ, just - tell me about Canadian Thanksgiving. How’re your parents?”

“Fine,” Jacques said. It sounded like he opened a door, and then the hustle and bustle of activity on his end cut off abruptly. “Same as ever.”

“Take any good photographs?” Kent asked, and how embarrassing was it that it had taken him months to learn that was what Jacques did with his time, both professionally and personally. He didn’t need a job to support himself, but Jacques was the kind of guy who liked to stay busy.

“A few,” Jacques said. “Nothing special. Tell me about your day. How did the presentation go?”

Kent yawned. “Fine,” he said. “Julian asked a lot of questions, but I think he liked my answers. He winked at me after I was done.” He chewed his lip, trying to remember his day. “Got lunch after with some of my bros at Otto’s, Skyped with Mags, worked out for a while… I dunno, I was lazy today. Decompressing.”

“Good,” Jacques said. “You deserved some time to relax.”

“I thought so,” Kent said. He wriggled deeper into his blankets, getting comfortable. “I really am gonna crash in a minute, can you hang up after I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” Jacques said. Kent could hear the smile in his voice. “Want me to talk?”

Kent hummed in approval. “Yeah, flights of angels sing me to my rest ‘n stuff,” he mumbled.

Jacques laughed quietly. “Right,” he said. “It’s still not cold enough up here for the backyard rink to freeze over, but that’s a Christmas tradition anyway. Maman decided she wanted to try cooking the turkey herself this year, which was… ill-advised, but Papa said we all had to try some before we called for take-out. I didn’t know turkey could get that dry. Gabrielle nearly dry-heaved trying to swallow it before she finally spit it out.”

Kent chuckled sleepily.

“Next year, you can come up with me to meet everyone,” Jacques said, so softly, then continued in his normal deep tone, “Maman does make very good pie, at least, and Papa ate almost half of an entire maple pie by himself, crisse. I wish I could police _his_ diet, but Maman says…”

Kent drifted off with a smile on his face.

  


Jacques was just about the only person Kent knew who still got the physical newspaper delivered to his house, but Kent liked it - both leafing through it himself and watching Jacques do it across the table, the way his fingers lightly caught the edges to turn the pages.

As usual, he had woken up before Jacques that morning. He couldn’t reach Jacques’ laptop without jostling him, so he found himself working on the crossword at the little table in the breakfast nook, newspaper lit by the sunbeams that came through the window.

He got so caught up that he didn’t notice Jacques’ presence for a few minutes after he came in, when Kent glanced up at the ceiling to concentrate and caught a flash of black in his peripheral vision. Jacques was watching him from the doorway, gaze imperceptible.

“Oh, hey,” he said, pulling the pencil from his mouth, eraser shredded by his teeth. He absently pushed up his glasses. “ _Leave that to me_ , six letters, second letter M. Anything?”

“Not off the top of my head,” Jacques said. He came and leaned across the table to kiss Kent, strangely intense for that time of the morning, _hungry_.

Kent was breathing heavily when Jacques released him. “Hey,” he said again dumbly. “Whoa.”

Jacques gave a little laugh. “Can I tell you something?” He took the seat across from Kent.

“Sure?” Kent said, though he wasn’t sure and he didn’t sound like it. He felt abruptly certain he knew what Jacques was about to say, and a sensation of equal parts dread and thrill shot through him.

“My name is Jack,” said Jacques.

It wasn’t what Kent had expected, but it sounded the same on his lips as Kent imagined ‘I love you’ would have. “Oh,” he said, blinking.

“Jacques isn’t my real name,” said Jacques - Jack, speaking a little quicker now, as if nervous. “I’m sure you guessed that. My real name is Jack, I thought you should - I wanted you to know.”

After the moment of surprise wore off, Kent smiled, broad and still growing. He liked knowing that, he found. Liked having that small, real part of Jack to cradle close. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, smiling back at him.

There was a moment of quiet.

“I’m on it,” Kent realized aloud, and rolled his eyes, filling in the answer in the little squares. “I hate when they do that, that’s not a real thing.”

“Yeah,” Jack repeated, quieter now, rising up from his chair. “Right?”

  


Jack showed up at his front door the next day, which was a rare enough event to still be strange and thrilling. Kent had to give himself a moment to, like, swoon quietly before he opened the door, lest all his stupid feelings show on his face.

But he found a darkly scowling Jack on the other side, and his stomach plummeted. “Hey,” Kent said. “Is -”

“Tell me why you’re so different online,” Jack growled.

His tone made Kent fall back a step, and Jack followed, shutting the door behind him just a hair too controlled to be a slam. “I - I don’t -” Kent said, faltering. The suddenness of this confrontation left him reeling; he grasped for his normal poise and came up short.

He had known this would happen. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

“Tell me why,” Jack said, stepping up close enough that Kent felt every inch of their height difference. “And this time, don’t lie.”

“You already know,” Kent whispered, because it had to be true.

Jack sneered. “You’re damn right I do,” he said. “So what was it, your friend found an easy mark online but he was too ugly to use his own pictures, so he ripped them off your Instagram? And then I was so stupid and gullible and obsessed that I actually wanted to meet you, so he roped you into his scheme?”

Kent flinched back. He had no defense against every vile, poisonous truth that fell from Jack’s lips.

“I thought so,” Jack said. “Jesus Christ. And you would have kept it up, if you weren’t too stupid to remember to tell him my real name. That’s low, even for you.”

The absolute unfairness of the _even for you_ was what made Kent flare up. “Christ, how naive are you? You thought you were going to find true love sending money and clothes to some blond twink you found on a sleazy website? Did this epiphany happen before or after you asked me for pictures of my nipple piercing, which _you_ paid for, remember?”

Jack recoiled back, but his expression stayed stormy. “I didn’t lie,” he said.

Kent snorted. “Oh, that’s rich, _Jacques_.”

“That’s different and you know it,” Jack said, and his anger seemed to crack all of a sudden, his humiliation and hurt bleeding through. “What you did was wrong and you know it.”

And deep down, Kent did. He hunched his shoulders, uncomfortable. “What do you want me to say?” he said finally. “It was fucked up, yeah.”

Jack’s face iced over. It clearly wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “I want my shit back,” he said, although Kent had a feeling he was only saying this because he didn’t know how to ask for what he really wanted, whatever that was.

“I don’t have any of it,” Kent said. “You’ll have to ask Wicks.”

“Bullshit,” Jack said, scowling again, angrier than ever, fury darkening his eyes.

“I don’t!” Kent said, and it was the truth, because he wouldn’t have felt right keeping any of it. Because everything Jack was saying was true and he knew it, all along he had known it.

Jack’s lip curled. “Right,” he said.

“Seriously,” Kent said, gesturing around. “See for yourself.” He ran his tongue over his top row of teeth. “Unless you want my nipple piercing, I’ve got nothing.”

Jack started looking around the apartment, and Kent watched him, his throat growing tight and a weight pressing on his chest as he realized this was the last time he would see Jack, the final memory he would carry with him.

This wasn’t how he wanted things to end.

Jack gave a triumphant sound in the bedroom, and Kent’s brow furrowed, confused, until Jack emerged with a fistful of dark red cloth in hand. “This is mine. I’m taking it back.”

Kent didn’t even understand what he was seeing for a moment, then he realized Jack was holding the Samwell t-shirt. He hadn’t really thought - Jack hadn’t bought that for him, it wasn’t like the rest of the gifts Kent had felt too guilty to keep…

“It doesn’t even fit you,” he said numbly.

“So?” Jack said, lips twisting up, nothing at all like a smile.

“So why do you want it? You’re just going to throw it away,” Kent said, feeling desperate, almost faint.

Jack shrugged, viciously indifferent.

“You have like forty of them,” Kent said, getting louder. “You don’t even want it!”

“It’s mine,” Jack said.

Kent, to his shame and humiliation, felt hot tears welling up in his eyes. This wasn’t how he wanted Jack to remember him, either. “Fine,” he said, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. “Fine, take it. Take it all, I’ll tell Wicks to give back the rest. Just go.”

Jack stared at him. He took a faltering half-step towards Kent. “Kenny,” he started to say softly, then a dark cloud came over his face. “No, that’s not your name, is it? Pardon, what should I call you?”

The cold feigned politeness in his voice - that was the worst, and final, crack, for Kent. “That is my name,” he said, tears gathering too fast and furious to dash them away now. “That’s always been my name, Kent - Kent Parson, my mom and sister call me Kenny, my friends call me Parse - and that’s why I didn’t say anything back when you told me yours, because _that is my name_ , so fuck off, okay?”

Each word came louder and faster than the last, so that he was nearly gasping by the end.

“And I wasn’t _too stupid to remember to tell him_ , but your name was for me, it was mine, and I didn’t want to share it, so just - just leave me alone. I don’t have any more of your shit,” Kent said, almost hiccuping from how hard he was crying. Jack’s face was fractured into colored shards through the kaleidoscope of his tears, and he was glad of it, glad he wouldn’t have an image to remember this moment by, no solid anchor for his humiliation and regret.

The blurry shape of Jack hesitated for another minute, then he turned and walked quietly away, shutting the door gently behind him, and he was gone.

  


Kent waited for a text from Wicks, something along the lines of _Dude why’d you ruin it? We had such a good thing going_. But it never came, and it wasn’t until weeks later that he knew why, when Wicks dropped by his apartment with a box of stuff.

“Apparently Jacques’ girlfriend found out about his dirty little sidepiece, so he had to go straight, so to speak,” Wicks said, shouldering past Kent and setting down the box on the table. “This is the shit that doesn’t fit my style, or whatever, so I figured I’d give you a crack at it before donating it to Goodwill.” He grinned. “Seriously, man, I owe you big.”

Kent looked into the box and poked listlessly through it. “He didn’t ask for it back?” he said, and he wasn’t surprised, thinking about it. Jack hadn’t wanted any of the junk back. It had only ever been about the power, the control. And he’d gotten it, the second he’d picked up that t-shirt.

“Be pretty shitty sugar daddy etiquette if he did,” Wicks said with a snort. “Anyway, I’m out. See you at Tater’s at 8?” The Rolex on his arm caught the light as he waved goodbye, so Kent had to blink away the spots.

Kent lifted a cashmere sweater from the box and looked at it for a long moment. Then he put it back, replaced the lid, and carried the box to his closet, tucking it into the dark recesses of the back corner.

His sheets didn’t smell like Jack anymore when he curled up in them, so it took him even longer to fall asleep.

  


Because his life was a goddamn comedy, he ran into Ransom outside the BU gym. If he’d noticed in time, he would have gone right back inside, but he didn’t spot him until they were clipping shoulders right outside the door.

“Hey,” Ransom said, grabbing Kent’s shoulder. “Kenny, right?”

“Oh,” Kent said. “Hey.” He mustered a small smile. “How’s it going?”

Ransom scrutinized his face for a long moment. “So that’s how it is?”

Kent didn’t need clarification. He scrubbed at his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, quiet and pained. “That’s how it is.”

“God damn,” Ransom said, sighing. “Anything I can do? He’s pretty fucked up right now too.”

A strange pang of mingled guilt and anger pulsed through Kent. It seemed like the height of stupidity for them both to be miserable over this, when there was such a simple solution to that. But he didn’t have the right to tell Jack that. This was his fault, after all. The ball was completely in Jack’s court.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s his choice, not mine.”

Ransom cocked his head. “Does he know that?”

Kent thought about it. “I think so?” He bit his lip. “He should, at least.”

Ransom watched him for another minute. Then he cleared his throat. “Look, Jack - he likes to take care of people, right?”

Despite himself, Kent cracked a smile. Ransom didn’t know the half of it. “Right.”

“So, I mean - I could be wrong about this, but I’d put good money… if Jack knew what you wanted, he’d want to give it to you.” Ransom shrugged one shoulder. “I think he just doesn’t know what that is.”

“Yes, he does,” Kent insisted.

“Then he doesn’t trust that he does,” Ransom said. He punched Kent’s shoulder lightly. “Just a hunch. Think on it?”

“I will,” Kent said, and did.

Couldn’t stop, for days after.

  


It struck him, finally, in a flash. That day…

Jack had _wanted_ to find his gifts in Kent’s apartment. It wasn’t until Kent said he hadn’t kept them that he’d become the angriest.

Duh.

  


Kent showed up at Jack’s door and banged on it until it opened. “What the fuck,” Jack said, face going stormy at finding him there.

“Three minutes,” Kent said, raising both hands in supplication. “I want three minutes.”

Jack leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow. “Okay…?”

“I’m going to lay out my terms, and it’s up to you whether you want to take them,” Kent said. He took a deep breath. “I want you to take me shopping and buy things at my request, not mail them to a fucking PO box. I want you to dress me up like your personal Ken doll in clothes that make you want to put me on my knees in the changing rooms at the Hugo Boss store. I want a Rolex of my own, I want a new phone, I want you to buy my books for school.”

It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the pattern of things that _he_ had asked Jack for, not Wicks. Groceries, sushi, Bruins tickets, sex. Experiences, not objects. Nothing that Jack could take away from him.

Maybe Jack had understood something that he hadn’t, that day.

“I want to move in with you, to sleep in your bed every night. I want to get a cat with you. Maybe a dog too, if they get along. I want to go to Christmas in Montreal and shit myself on the flight freaking out that your parents won’t like me.”

Jack cracked a smile, emboldening Kent to continue, stronger and more confident.

“And I want to be yours, okay? I want you to own me, and for both of us to know that. I want… I want you to make me feel safe and loved and cherished the way only you ever have.” Kent swallowed, because this was the hardest part to say. “I want to love you so much, to be so good to you, that you delude yourself into thinking you’re the lucky one in this relationship.”

Kent stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels and looking down, finding that it was too hard to meet Jack’s eyes anymore. He really should have prepared this speech better.

“I want everything we had before,” he mumbled. “Just… more.”

Jack didn’t say anything for an interminable, heart-stopping minute. Then he reached around and pressed his hand to the small of Kent’s back, stepping in so close Kent had to crane his neck to look up at him. “Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmured, ducking in to press a kiss to the corner of Kent’s lips.

Kent gave a relieved, happy laugh. “You have no idea,” he said back, stretching up onto his tiptoes to meet Jack halfway.

  


The bench in the foyer was already piled with jackets and scarves when Kent came inside, stomping to knock the snow off his boots. He sat on the mound of them to take off his shoes and outerwear.

Walking into the main room, he found Ransom, Holster, and Shitty on the big couch, Jack seated on the loveseat with his head bent down towards his phone screen.

“Sup, brahs,” Kent said, slapping their hands as he walked past them to get to Jack. “What’s the score?”

“10-3 Pats,” said Shitty.

Jack lifted his arm and Kent slotted himself snugly next to him, nestling into his warmth. He pressed his cold face into Jack’s neck, making him hiss. “Jesus, did you walk from BU?”

“Just the T,” Kent said, muffled. “S’windy.” He slipped his hand under Jack’s shirt, splaying it out against his bare skin. Though Jack gave another hiss, he didn’t move away. For that alone, if nothing else, Kent knew he did not deserve this man.

“Hey Kenny-kins, I need your help,” Holster said, throwing a Dorito at him.

Kent plucked it off his shoulder and ate it. “Yeah?”

“Convince the cap to take us all to the Pats-Bills game next week.” Holster narrowed his eyes at Kent. “You’re from the beautiful homeland. I need you to fight the good fight with me.”

“If Canada’s the Great White North, does that make Buffalo just the White North?” Shitty mused aloud.

“The Sad White North,” said Ransom. “Man, Bills _and_ Sabres. Why do you two hate yourselves so much?”

“The Deeply Self-Loathing White North,” said Kent.

“I sense I am not being taken seriously here,” Holster said, wrinkling his nose.

“Kent doesn’t even like football,” Jack said. “Good luck getting him on your side.”

Kent hummed. “Well, now I want to go to the game just to be contrarian.”

Jack groaned while Holster threw both hands up in victory. “Get it, son!” Holster said.

Kent grinned winsomely up at Jack. “C’mon, it could be fun. We could make a day of it - take the train down, or drive down early and tailgate… I’ll wear my Smerlas jersey and get relentlessly chirped, you can death glare the drunk Pats fans who throw things at me. I’ll get way too drunk and handsy on shit beer.” He pouted his lower lip. “You know you want to.”

“I really don’t,” Jack said.

“I tried,” Kent said to Holster, shrugging.

“I mean, I would take just you,” Jack said.

Kent brightened. “Really?”

“Hey!” Holster said.

“Awesome,” Kent said, pleased.

“I disapprove,” said Holster, crossing his arms and sulking.

Jack sighed. That was what he got for only having grad students for friends, and for having a guilt complex the size of Canada. “Nosebleeds only,” he said. “And I’m not paying for anyone’s drinks but Kent.”

“YES,” said Holster, sitting straight up again.

“Nosebleeds are more fun anyway,” said Ransom. “Thanks, dude.” He fist-bumped Jack.

“You’re the fucking best,” Kent said, squeezing Jack’s hand. He kissed his cheek and whispered, “Thank you, daddy.”

Jack hitched him further onto his lap and pressed his smile into Kent’s hair. “Of course, baby,” he murmured back. “Anything.”


End file.
